Kristopher Jansma - Why We Came to the City

How on earth could Irene’s jaw possibly be connected to her armpits? George wished he’d paid better attention in AP Bio.

“Obviously changes of any kind could be relevant,” Dr. Zarrani stressed to Irene. “Call the office anytime, and we’ll see you next week for fresh scans. Then we’ll know where we are.”

He and Irene had celebrated with a pint of Cherry Garcia on the sidewalk, followed by two pints of Guinness and a round of Big Buck Hunter at McIntosh’s Bar on the corner. Back at home that night, George had done something he hadn’t done since college. He’d waited until Sara was asleep and then got up to pray. That Irene would soon be herself again, and that by extension Sara would be herself again and that he could be himself again. It had been a long time since he’d prayed, and it didn’t feel right, but maybe his words were getting through, because here they were, all together as planned, in a car headed to the end of Long Island, to meet the ocean at the horizon.

• • •

Luther’s house wouldn’t be available for another hour, because a cleaning service was coming to get things ready for them after Sigrid’s nephews’ departure for Norway that morning. So George decided their first stop should be at The Blue Anchor, where they kicked things off with raw oysters and Bloody Marys made of freshly juiced heirloom tomatoes from the hothouse garden out back. They sidled up along a long bar facing the bay and the still-rising sun. There was hardly anyone else there.

“Isn’t this fun?” George said, raising his oyster shell up until everyone did the same. “Cheers!”

Sara forced a smile as she slurped the slimy, briny creature from its shell. Something was clearly still bothering her. Jacob belched as he set his own shell down and said, “Delicious. Now, would anyone mind telling me what we’re doing out here? In April?”

Sara half-choked. “Sorry. Horseradish.” She was trying very hard not to look at Irene, who had promised that at some point that weekend she’d finally tell Jacob what had been going on. George wasn’t holding his breath.

“Do we always need to have a reason?” Irene asked.

“Think of it like spring break,” George chimed in.

“Sure,” Jacob said. “All those times we went on spring break. Remember Cancún? When I did that body shot off of Mark McGrath? No? Me neither .”

George knew Jacob would just keep pushing until something snapped. The only hope was diverting him.

“Don’t look but I think the oyster shucker is staring at you.”

They all turned cautiously — except for Jacob, who half stood and craned his neck just to get a look. There indeed the burly, bearded man was looking back at them, not that there were many others to look at. Giant tattooed tentacles wound around his muscled arms, curling out from the white straps of his apron and disappearing down into his gauzy white gloves, which never stopped moving, automatically maneuvering a knife blade between the closed shells.

Jacob grunted dismissively. “You’d think by now you’d know my type.”

“He’s breathing,” George pointed out helpfully.

“He’s adorable ,” Irene corrected. “And he’s staring right at you.”

She swiveled on her stool, and the morning light glanced off her cheekbones such that George could just make out the reddish lump under her eye. Was he just imagining it, or was Jacob looking at it too? Sara definitely was.

“I’ll go talk to him,” George offered. He’d had plenty of practice being Jacob’s wingman when Jacob didn’t want him to be.

Over Irene’s cheers and Jacob’s protesting, George slid back from his seat and marched confidently across the room. He had successfully solved the problem of the foul mood; now he hoped to begin phase two, beginning a memorable story that they could tell each other over and over again that weekend and always. They had just begun their second round of Bloody Marys, and he was feeling very good after the long drive. A second drink always suffused his worries in the pleasant buzz of uvula and the sting of nostrils. Painted a little haze on everything. Amplified the timbre of Irene’s delight as George smiled at the oyster shucker as they began to chat.

“Sorry, but where are these oysters from? They’re excellent.”

“We farm them just out there by the Shelter Island ferry. Can’t get ’em fresher.”

He held one up to show George. It was about the size of his open palm, dark and stony and still alive when the man slipped his knife into the thin slit and gave it a firm twist, cracking the shells apart before cleaning grit off the meat and placing it still in the pearly shell on a silver platter covered in crushed ice.

George pointed back at Jacob. “My friend was just wondering… we passed all these vineyards on the way over. But we don’t want to just drink the tourist stuff, you know? What do you drink around here?”

He watched as he momentarily looked up at Jacob, his knife slipping for the first time, just catching the glove. A small red splotch appeared on the glove, amid the dried, darker blotches of past slip-ups. He dipped the blade down again into the shell and in one swift motion flipped it straight up into the air. Like lightning, his other hand came around and caught the oyster in an empty glass. He repeated this trick and then poured a shot of vodka over each. Then he scooped a little cocktail sauce onto each and squeezed a lemon over them.

“For me?” George asked.

“You asked what I drink around here. Plus your friend looks like the jealous type.”

George winked and tapped the side of his glass against the shucker’s. He wasn’t wrong: no sooner had they each swallowed their oyster shots than George heard Jacob calling from the other side of the room, “When you and your new best friend are done over there, could you get us another round?”

The man looked over at Jacob as he began to crack open a fresh oyster. “Tell your friend to open his mouth.”

“ That is never a problem,” George replied, and called over. “Hey, Jacob, open wide!”

Jacob turned on the stool and opened his mouth.

Without breaking eye contact, the man loosened the gray bivalve and positioned his knife underneath. Then in a fluid motion he flipped the oyster again, this time in a long arc, fifteen feet across the floor of the restaurant. Jacob had to lean back just slightly, enough to make Irene shriek in fear he’d fall, before, in one spectacular moment, he caught the projectile in his mouth and swallowed it whole. The girls cheered as Jacob stood up and walked over, grinning.

“You’ve got my attention,” he said.

• • •

Jacob took his sweet time getting the phone number of the oyster shucker, and Irene took a detour down to the docks, claiming she needed to collect some loose shells and gull feathers that he imagined might find their way into a painting sometime in the near future. George soon saw her walking around with phone out, frowning and trying to catch a signal. But he didn’t care, so long as everyone was happy.

Sara pulled him aside as they approached the car. “Did you see Irene take her Neulasta this morning?”

George hadn’t, but he said, “I’m sure she did. She’s fine.”

“I should have reminded her before we left.”

“I’m sure she remembered.”

“I just have a bad feeling. We don’t even know where the nearest hospital is.”

“Nothing is going to happen. Dr. Zarrani even said a trip would be good for her.”

“She also said Irene should have had the tumor removed.”

“No, she said she thought it would be better to be thorough, but it probably wasn’t necessary, and considering that it would possibly permanently ruin her vision in that eye, it’d be better not to do anything until we know if the chemo is working.”